


Unhallowed Ground

by violet_storms



Series: femslash february 2021 [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abigail Hobbs Lives, Abigail Hobbs is a Cannibal, Canonical Character Death, Dark Abigail Hobbs, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, F/F, Femslash February, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29672067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violet_storms/pseuds/violet_storms
Summary: Once upon a time, two girls went into the woods.
Relationships: Abigail Hobbs & Hannibal Lecter, Abigail Hobbs/Marissa Schurr
Series: femslash february 2021 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2144880
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	Unhallowed Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Title came from Florence + The Machine's [Howl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6XIMhyZx2Yo), which is really the anthem of Dark Abigail.

When she sleeps, Abigail dreams of her coffin.

There are always mourners at her funeral, which is strange because Abigail can’t imagine who would really want to come. They stand in a semi-circle around her open grave, heads bent, black veils fluttering in the wind. Whenever Abigail tries to peer into their faces, they mirror her movements and pull her in close, nails digging into her skin. Abigail thinks that if she asked their names, at least one would say _Elise Nichols._ So she never asks. She simply watches as they lower her coffin into the ground.

Sometimes the casket is white, like her mother’s, which lies in some lonely plot Abigail will never visit. Sometimes it is black, the color of her father’s ashes, disposed cleanly and quietly after the burning—they did not tell her where.

Most often it is a deep, dark red. Like Marissa’s.

Abigail wakes up tasting blood.

  


_Once upon a time, two girls went into the woods. They spoke of terrible things, of crimes committed by a father._

_“I don’t think you did it,” said the first._

_“I love you,” said the second. “I’ve loved you as long as I’ve known you.”_

  


_“I don’t think you did it,” said the first._

_“Get away,” said the second. “Get far away from me and never come back. You are in terrible danger.”_

  


_“I don’t think you did it,” said the first._

_“I do,” said the man in the woods._

_“I did,” said the second girl. “I did, and will do it again.”_

  


Abigail used to wish she were Marissa. Beautiful, popular, charming—all were qualities Marissa seemed to have effortlessly, with a casual, confident awareness of her own allure. Even after they became friends, Abigail would watch her toss her hair and feel envy pooling in her stomach. _I want to be you. I want to be yours. I want to inhale you, consume you. I want you._

One day Marissa falls asleep on Abigail’s shoulder and Abigail doesn’t so much as breathe for half an hour.

One day Marissa kisses her at a sleepover during a game of spin-the-bottle.

One day Marissa tells her she loves her after a fair amount of alcohol at a party and Abigail goes to the bathroom and throws up.

One day Marissa dies on a pair of antlers in Abigail’s attic.

  


_Once upon a time, two girls went into the woods. One was carefree and guileless, jumping over skipping stones and laughing. The other was a wolf in girl’s clothing._

_Both were in the sights of a hunting rifle._

_“Will you give me directions to your grandmother’s house?” asked the wolf._

_“Over the river and through the woods,” said the girl._

_“I’m sorry,” said the wolf. “I’m so, so sorry.”_

  


When Marissa appears in the doorway of Abigail’s old home, the first thing Abigail thinks of is a mirror. There’s a voice ringing in her ears, full of static, as though spoken through a telephone. “Can you catch somebody’s crazy?” she wondered aloud, five minutes earlier.

“Folie a deux,” said Alana. “It's a French psychiatric term. ‘Madness for two.’ ”

 _Madness for two;_ it sounded like something out of Alice in Wonderland, and Abigail had to press down the urge to laugh. Being back in the place where she almost died has made her feel reckless and unafraid, her heart beating stronger than normal. She’s filling up the house with her aliveness, a silent message to her father: _you lost. I won._

Then Marissa is mounted in her attic and Abigail remembers that she never wanted to play this game in the first place.

Some things must be inevitable, she thinks as she stares at the body. Death. Reflections. Revenge. Her father is gone, but he still reaches for her throat.

And Marissa has always looked a lot like her.

  


_Once upon a time, two girls went into the woods. They walked carefully, warily, neither trusting the other. Every time the first girl looked away, the second took a step closer, and closer, and closer, until they were hand-in-hand._

_“Will you come into my parlour?” said the second to the first._

_“I think the hell not,” said the first._

_“That’s all right,” said the second, pulling out a fork and knife. “I can just eat you right here.”_

  


Human flesh does not taste all so different from veal. Abigail’s very aware of that fact by now; she’s spent months dissecting which of the meals her father served them were made from girls who looked just like her. When she smells the meat cooking in Hannibal’s kitchen, she feels bile creep up her throat. When she puts it in her mouth, she recognizes the taste.

She swallows anyway.

Hannibal likes to smile at her as though they’re in on a joke together, a joke no one else is smart enough to understand. Abigail returns his smile with practiced gestures, tilting her head to the side and casting her eyes downward, telegraphing demure victimhood. She lets him drug her and put his hands on her shoulders and cradle her while she cries. _This man wants to kill me,_ she thinks. The feeling is very familiar; the scar across her neck burns and so does the inside of her mouth.

Her hands itch for a rifle, but it’s not deer she pictures shooting.

  


_Once upon a time, two girls went into the woods. One was dressed in red, the other in black. They walked side-by-side, mirroring each other’s movements. “What’s your name?” asked the one in black._

_“The same as yours,” said the one in red._

_“Why are you here?” asked the one in black._

_“Same reason as you,” said the one in red._

_“And what’s that?”_

_“I’m tired of being helpless. Aren’t you tired of being helpless? Don’t you want to be in control for once?” The one in red held out her arms. “It will be better for us both if you let me take over for a little while.”_

_“Take over?” asked the one in black, but found she had no voice anymore._

  


“I’m sorry that I couldn’t protect you in this life,” says Hannibal. They are standing in a kitchen; the scene is painfully familiar. “But I can protect you in the life we create for you.”

Abigail looks up at him. His tone is soft and measured. He expects her to trust him. She wishes she could.

_“Will you come into my parlour?” said the spider to the fly._

The knife slides easily through his suit. Up through the stomach. Hannibal’s hands tighten in her hair to pull back her throat, but Abigail knows how to gut a person, and she gives the knife a final twist as she pulls it free. His body falls to the floor, eyes wide and shocked. Abigail does not bother to close them when she bends down to take his wallet.

There is blood all over her scarf, so she unwinds it and leaves it in the sink.

Then she runs, and does not stop for a long time.

  


_Once upon a time, two girls went into the woods._

_One came back._

  


Abigail cuts her hair off at her chin, and starts smoking cigarettes to change her voice. She wears lifts in her shoes to make herself taller and dresses like the girls she used to wish she could be. Sometimes she considers going home to visit Marissa’s grave, but it’s never much more than a thought. She will not risk being caught. She will not become a prisoner ever, ever again.

Every few months, an unmarked envelope full of cash appears on Elise Nichols’ doorstep. The same happens at Bridget Bishop’s, and Susannah Martin’s, and five other homes, including Cassie Boyle’s, just for good measure. Abigail hopes that the gesture is going some way towards depopulating her funeral, though that isn’t really why she does it.

She picks up flyers for missing girls everywhere she goes, tearing them off telephone poles and stuffing them in her backpack. Abigail memorizes their faces and phone numbers with the same intensity with which she studies the men she passes on the street. Most of these men are simply wandering through their lives, but once in a while she finds one who walks with a purpose she recognizes. Her eyes follow them around the corner. Then so does she.

Abigail’s a natural. Her father always made a point of calling her that when they went hunting together, a smile on his face, ruffling her hair: _You’re a natural, Abigail._ Her father lied to her about a lot of things. He didn’t lie about this. She is a natural; small talk floats easily to her lips, and she can smile in a way that says, _trust me. Trust me like I trust you._ Her senses are well-refined. She knows what it looks like when someone is about to lunge. She gets there first.

She is a natural; the weight of a rifle is just right in her hands, and she can pull the trigger without hesitating now.

It’s justice, she tells herself. She killed the one who killed Marissa, but there are a thousand more girls like Marissa, and a thousand more people who loved them. Abigail cannot avenge them all, but she can try.

When she sleeps, Abigail dreams of her coffin. When she’s awake, she builds cairns. She leaves them wherever she goes, stacking the rocks on top of one another with gentle precision. She tells herself they are for her parents, or for the missing girls, or for her victims. The truth is, every last one of them is for her.

“I loved you,” she tells Marissa’s faraway grave one day. The inside of her mouth is burning, and the meat cooking in the kitchen tastes a little bit like veal. “I love you.”

She means it, but the words are hollow on her tongue.

In the end, there is only one thing Abigail has ever loved to do.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>    
> 
> 
>   
> 


End file.
